


The Peace of My Years Shall Be Yours

by ElegantPi



Category: Ballet Shoes - Noel Streatfeild
Genre: F/F, Misses Clause Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:13:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElegantPi/pseuds/ElegantPi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now a pilot in the Air Transport Auxiliary, ferrying planes from the factory to RAF bases, Petrova's dream of flying has finally come true. While stationed at Luton, she meets Yuliya Ivanova, a young woman who is preparing for a dangerous mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Peace of My Years Shall Be Yours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [calliette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calliette/gifts).



"Excuse me. Pardon?" Petrova heard the voice with its lyrical accent through several inches of riveted steel, where she had her head stuck up in the wheel well of the Oxford she would be flying out in the morning. Still clutching her wrench, she ducked out from underneath the plane. The young woman had a small suitcase in one hand, and a hat Petrova thought of as "French-looking" perched atop neatly arranged light brown curls. Brown eyes blinked uncertainly at Petrova, and suddenly she felt smudged, grimy and awkward.

"Yes? Can I help you?" Petrova asked.

"I am looking for the dormitories," said the woman. "Can you direct me?"

Her accent seemed a bit French, but maybe a bit of something else, too, Petrova thought. "That way," she said, waving the wrench at the door on the far side of the hanger. "Just through the door, then around the corner of the medical building."

"Thank you," the woman said, and turned in the direction Petrova had indicated. Then, before Petrova could duck back into the wheel well, she turned back. "It is a beautiful aeroplane," she said.

Petrova grinned. "It is," she agreed. "I'm Petrova Fossil." She wiped her hand on her coverall and stepped forward to hold it out.

The woman took her hand and pressed it warmly, not seeming at all put out by grease and grime. "I am Yuliya Ivanova," she said. "I have come to inspect and repair radio systems in the planes, as needed, and give training in the use of radio."

"Radio!" Petrova exclaimed, impressed. "I hope we'll have a chance to talk, then. I have a cargo load of questions to ask you."

"I hope we shall. Perhaps at dinner, tonight. Or do you call it mess here?"

"It is a bit of a mess, sometimes," Petrova said, and they both laughed. "I should get back to..." She waved vaguely at the Oxford.

"Of course," Yuliya said. A little wave goodbye, and she was gone, the heels of her boots echoing in the hangar.

Petrova had the afternoon free, so she drove her car back to the tiny cottage Gum rented for her, about three miles from the hangars. Gum had insisted on the cottage and had managed a rather beat up old Austin that she could drive about in.

Not that she ever strayed far from the base. Sometimes, she would stay over in the dorms anyway, if she would have had to drive after dark, though that made the matron fussy. Matron was fussy over Petrova anyway, thinking it something of a scandal for a woman to live alone in a cottage. Although Petrova was friendly with the other women, for the most part she blessed Gum and his eccentric ways, and relished her cottage and its solitude, where she could read in peace, or listen to the wireless whenever she wanted to.

This afternoon she washed her hair and put it up. It was thick, and dark, and very straight, with wisps that fell around her face no matter how many pins she stuck in to keep them back. She longed for the elegance of the late Amy Johnson or the neat prettiness of Commander Pauline Gower. But no, the looking glass told her eyes that she was still Plain Petrova: face too pale, cheekbones that stuck right out to her ears, brown eyes that sometimes got dark circles under them, and hair that didn't want to behave properly.

All the same, she put on a nice frock – not her best one, or anything, but a bit nicer than everyday things – and packed a little overnight bag. If she ate dinner at the mess, it would be dark before she could get home, and no one drove on the roads with headlamps after dark. Petrova had a horror of breaking down in the dark of night, or crashing while driving without the headlamps, and having to walk home. She'd heard of people being bombed in the hedgerows while walking along. Anyway, she could get an early start tomorrow if she could bound right out of bed and get to the planes. She hoped the weather would be fine for flying tomorrow.

The mess was crowded, as usual, and several women greeted Petrova as she scanned the room for Yuliya. "Bon soir," she heard just above her ear and turned to find Yuliya standing just behind her.

"So you are French, then?" Petrova asked. They moved to get in the serving line.

"I grew up in France," Yuliya said, "But I was born in Russia."

"Oh," Petrova said. "So was I, but I don't remember it."

"I wondered about your name," Yuliya said.

"I don't think it was the name I was born with; my guardian named me and wanted a Russian-sounding name." Petrova spied an empty table by the window. They darted to claim it, carrying their food trays.

"So, how did you end up here?" Petrova asked over the din of clinking dishes and silverware and chatter.

"It is a long story," Yuliya said. "In short, I escaped France just after the invasion, and I have some skill with radio, so I made myself useful." She leaned her chin on her hand and looked out the window, and Petrova thought she looked very sad.

"Did your family escape?" she asked.

"My father was killed. My mother died long ago, very soon after we came to France, when I was a little girl."

Petrova stared at her tray and pushed her potatoes around in the gravy. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

Yuliya turned back from the window and smiled, a broad, beaming smile, and Petrova noticed that she had freckles on her nose. "I don't want to be sad tonight," she said. "And I am doing all I can to defeat those who destroyed my home."

"To victory, then," Petrova said, raising her mug of tea.

Yuliya clinked it with her mug. "To victory." Taking a sip from her mug, she said, "I am giving a radio training class tomorrow – will you attend?"

Petrova shook her head. "I'm flying the plane you saw me working on this morning down to Trebelzue in Cornwall tomorrow, early. Won't be back until the next day. How long will you be here?"

"I... am not sure," Yuliya said. "But I hope I will see you when you return."

"Me, too," Petrova said.

"Tell me about your family," said Yuliya.

"Well, I have a sister Pauline who is a movie star and a sister Posy who is a ballerina, plus my guardian Sylvia who we call Garnie, and then there's Nana. They're all in New York City, where Pauline is acting on Broadway and Posy is dancing with Manoff's ballet. And then there's Gum, which is short for Great Uncle Matthew, who's down in London."

Yuliya clapped her hands. "I wondered, I did wonder, when you said you were Fossil, if you were related to Pauline Fossil. I have loved her films."

Petrova grinned. "She's a great actress, but she hates doing film. She's really glad to be back on the stage. That's what she loves."

"A pity," Yuliya said. "I really did love her films. So, how is it that you have two sisters who are performers on the stage, but here you are, an aviatrix?"

"Oh, I was always stupid at dancing and acting," Petrova replied. "Much better with cars and aeroplanes than chassés and monologues. I can tell you all about life in the London theater, though."

"I tell you what," Yuliya said, her face lighting up. "If you are back by Saturday, I heard from the girls in the dormitory that there is to be a dance in the Luton hall on Saturday night. I want to go, and I want you to come with me."

Petrova flushed. "Oh, I don't know. I mean, I will probably be back in time, but I'm not much for dancing."

With a pleading look, Yuliya said, "Oh, please?"

After a moment's hesitation, Petrova nodded. "Well, all right, since you'll probably wheedle until I say yes, anyway. You're the type, I can tell."

Yuliya tossed her glossy curls and laughed.

"I guess I should turn in for the night," said Petrova.

"I did not know you stay in the dormitories," Yuliya said, confused.

"Not all the time, usually on nights before a flight. I have a cottage about three miles away but I can't drive on the roads at night, of course."

"No, of course not. I tell you what, I have a small room to myself. Stay there; you will be more comfortable on my sofa than you will on one of those terrible dormitory beds."

"Oh," said Petrova. "Well..."

A mischievous smile spread across Yuliya's face, and she leaned in conspiratorially. "I have a box of chocolates that a GI gave me several days ago. Come on," she coaxed, waving her hand as if to sweep Petrova along.

Petrova shook a finger at her. "Wheedling again." Yuliya's smile flipped from mischievous to angelic. "Oh, all right, then."

Yuliya's room was tiny indeed. She made up a bed for Petrova on the sofa, then brought out the chocolates and put the kettle on a hot plate in the corner. Petrova slipped behind a screen and wriggled out of her frock and into her nightclothes in the tiny corner.

She and Yuliya made themselves cozy with mugs of tea, Petrova wrapped in a blanket on the couch, Yuliya with her shoulders covered in a brightly embroidered shawl.

"That's beautiful," Petrova said. "Was it your mother's?"

"Yes," Yuliya replied, passing the box of chocolates. "She embroidered it herself."

Petrova picked out a chocolate with a crystallized blue flower on top and nibbled at it. "This is fun," she said. "I haven't been this cozy since I was with my sisters, oh, ages ago."

"I am glad," Yuliya said. "I am glad that I met you this morning. I feel less lonely now. Less s..." She trailed off, and played with the ends of her shawl.

In that moment, she looked very young, a little girl afraid of the dark. Petrova felt certain she had been going to say, "scared". _Of what?_ she wondered. _Poor thing, she likely hasn't forgotten what it was like to escape from France._ She reached across the space between the sofa and the bed and put her hand over Yuliya's. "It's okay, really," she said. "This place is safe as houses. The most excitement we get is a bad landing and an explosion or two from the engine test bed over at the factory."

Yuliya gripped her hand, and to Petrova's astonishment, her eyes filled with tears. "You are too kind to me, Petrova Fossil." She dropped Petrova's hand and turned her head away.

"Oh, I just want to get in your good graces so you'll teach me about radios," Petrova replied lightly. She was relieved when Yuliya laughed again.

"All right," Yuliya said, clapping her hands, "tell me what you want to know."

"Everything."

"About radio?"

"About everything."

~*~*~*~*~*~

The October morning was crisp and chilly, and a breeze frosted Petrova's cheek as she crossed the yard to the hangar. "All set?" she asked the mechanic on duty.

"Ready to go," he said.

"Right, then." She took up the log and went through the ground check with the mechanic. Once that was done, she hauled herself up into the cockpit for the pre-flight checks and made her log entries while the engines warmed up.

Takeoff had always been the most exhilarating part of flying for Petrova. She still marveled that a ton of steel could, at her touch, lift off the ground and soar up into the sky, and, with enough fuel, take her anywhere in the world. She gave her thanks to Pauline Gower and all the women with her who had made it possible for Petrova to be in the pilot seat, responsible all by herself for the safe delivery of the aircraft. How terrible it would have been to have been born years too early, in a time when women were not allowed to fly.

The Oxford taxied out of the hangar and onto the runway. Petrova noticed it was getting weedy again; she made a mental note to mention it to the commander when she got back. And then all her focus was on the aircraft, checking and double checking, listening to the engines spinning up, and then the aeroplane was hurtling forward and leaping into the air at the bidding of her racing heart. No mistakes, a perfect take-off, and clear skies as far as she could see.

She and Yuliya had talked far into the night. Petrova was a little afraid that she had talked too much when Yuliya asked her about flying, something Petrova could go on about for hours upon hours. She'd left the woman sleeping, cheek cradled hand, her curls splayed out across the pillow. Petrova almost leaned down to kiss her cheek but stopped short at the sound of the morning bell. She'd left before Yuliya opened her eyes and scurried off to the hangar.

Through the flight, Petrova mulled over her new friend. Yuliya wouldn't say how long she'd be at Luton, and she'd changed the subject when Petrova pressed her about where she'd been before and where she would go after. Ah, well, maybe she was just a very private person. But Petrova had the feeling there was more to it, though she'd kept herself from prying so as not to upset Yuliya.

The flight was uneventful, boring, and cold. Petrova amused herself by reciting some of the Shakespeare she had learned long ago with Dr Jakes. One couldn't fall asleep while reciting Henry V, Act 4, Scene 3, and speaking some of Beatrice's parts from Much Ado About Nothing helped her to imagine herself in warm, sun-drenched Messina. The sun was just touching the horizon when she dropped through the thin veil of clouds into Cornwall and made a steady touchdown, taxiing to the front of the hangar at RAF Trebelzue.

Climbing shivering out of the cockpit, she caught the eye of an RAF officer, who sneered in her direction and jostled his mate's arm. She ignored their jeers and delivered her log book to the hangar officer, collected her train ticket, and set off in search of a mug of hot tea.

Some men, her instructor had told her, especially pilots, saw women as a threat to their jobs and their abilities, even though every single woman was needed in the ferry pools in order to get the aeroplanes to their destinations on time. "You'll hear every insult under the sun," her instructor told her. "And you're to take no notice, because your duty is to deliver the aeroplane and get back as quick as you can to deliver the next one. You don't have time to bandy empty words with men who ought to be seeing to their own duties rather than trying to keep you from yours."

So Petrova marched on, even though she could hear the remarks being made behind her, even though she longed to turn around and fly at those men and give them a good few punches to their noses and teach them a thing or two about the strength of women. Doing something like that would jeopardize her standing as a pilot, and no sneering man was worth the sky, as far as Petrova was concerned. Someday... Someday, when she was down in the history books as the greatest aviator the world had ever seen, man or woman, they wouldn't be sneering then.

"Here you go, doll." The man behind the serving line in the mess hall handed over a mug of hot tea, fragrant steam rising up and warming her lips and the tip of her nose.

"Thank you," she said, absently, and went to sit by a window so she could watch the aeroplanes landing and taking off. She checked her train ticket – it would be an all-night trip with two exchanges to get back to Luton. Once she finished her tea, she would set off for the train station. She still had Saturday night to look forward to – or, to fear, rather. She'd never been to a dance, neither at Luton nor at Hatfield. Truthfully, she hadn't danced since her Academy days. Yuliya seemed quite stylish and probably knew all the latest dances. Petrova doubted anyone would be dancing a polka.

It took some time to find a ride up to the station, and the long wait for the train made Petrova cold and shivery again. Sometimes, after these trips, she felt she would never be warm again. At least she didn't take cold like some of the other women often did. Once on the train, she accepted another cup of hot tea and let the conductor punch her ticket. Then, she curled herself up on the bench, leaned her head against the window, and fell asleep to the clacking of the train wheels over the track.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Yuliya and Petrova giggled their way through making their toiletries for the dance. Petrova had offered the use of her cottage to get ready for the evening, and Yuliya had happily accepted. She insisted on doing up Petrova's hair, touching her lips with a tiny bit of pink lipstick, a dab of mascara on her lashes. Petrova felt almost pretty in her party frock and dancing shoes. Yuliya took her by the shoulders and kissed both her cheeks in the French way, exclaiming over Petrova's beauty, which Petrova found quite silly.

Yuliya herself looked gorgeous in a glossy blue dress, her curls pinned stylishly around her head. She was taller than Petrova, and taller still in high heels. Her color was high in her cheeks, and her brown eyes sparkled with merriment. Tonight, she was like something out of the movies. Petrova felt like a small, ugly doll beside her.

They left the cottage just as the sun was slipping slowly down toward the horizon. Yuliya took Petrova's arm, and they went out to the car, where Yuliya carefully tucked scarves over their hair and admonished Petrova to drive slowly and carefully for the sake of their coiffures. Just for fun, Petrova sped down a hill and took a sharp corner while Yuliya squealed in surprise (but not fear, Petrova noted).

She parked the car in her usual spot at the airfield while Yuliya scolded her. Arm in arm, they went up to the hall in the crisp blue twilight. The blackout curtains hid the golden light in the hall, but it spilled out as the door opened and closed. Petrova could hear laughter and music all the way down the high street. It was chilly, and their breaths puffed white in the early evening air.

"Oh, this is fun," Yuliya said, squeezing Petrova's arm. "I have always loved to dance. Do you not love it?"

"I haven't danced in years, truthfully," Petrova admitted.

"Oh, you poor thing," Yuliya said. "We must fix that tonight."

"I'm dreadful, actually."

"I do not believe you."

"You will, soon."

They were inside, now, and they left their wraps with the boy at the coat check. Men and women crowded the hall, some of them dancing a foxtrot in the center of the hall while others lingered on the edges, chatting or waiting for a partner.

"Ladies." Two RAF junior officers advanced on them and handed them glasses punch. "It has a little kick," one of them said with a wink. He was tall and dark and rather good looking. His friend was a bit shorter, but still tall, and looked just as nice.

"I just bet it does," Yuliya said, winking back.

"Dance?" said the taller one.

"Oh..." Petrova hesitated. Yuliya spun away with the tall officer.

"Drink up, and we'll have a quick hop around the room," his friend said to her. "Don't worry – I dance like a clod, but I won't step on your feet."

Petrova laughed and tossed back her drink. She let him swing her into the crowd.

In fact, Petrova was a much better dancer than she thought herself to be. Years of training her body had made her a neat, proficient dancer who could easily pick up the steps to a new dance. She found herself in high demand on the dance floor.

"I never knew dancing could be _fun_!" She exclaimed to Yuliya as they fanned themselves in the powder room. "It was never fun before!"

"Oh, my feet, my poor feet!" Yuliya moaned, but she was smiling. "I am so glad we came."

"So am I," Petrova agreed.

"I think I have but one more dance in me," Yuliya said. "And then we can go back to my little room for tea, a chat, and perhaps I will find a bit more chocolate."

"That sounds nice," Petrova replied.

"Only one thing," Yuliya said, holding up a finger. "I want to dance with you."

Petrova laughed. "Okay!"

Back in the hall, Yuliya spun them out to the dance floor for a waltz. Petrova felt dizzy with delight as they spun and spun and spun around. Yuliya pulled her close, and Petrova leaned against her, and then their feet got tangled up and they couldn't stop laughing about it all the way to Yuliya's room back at the airfield.

They bundled themselves into flannel nightgowns and didn't bother with the sofa but snuggled down under the blankets together in Yuliya's bed. Yuliya blew out the lamp and laid her head on Petrova's shoulder. "Thank you for going with me," she said. "I know you did not like the idea at first, but it means a great deal to me that you went to the dance with me in spite of that."

"I had fun," Petrova said. "I'm so glad you asked me to go with you. I haven't had so much fun in ages."

"I am glad," Yuliya said. She sighed.

Petrova pushed herself up on one elbow to look at her. "What's wrong?"

Yuliya hesitated a moment before replying. "I am leaving tomorrow. I was told the delay would be much longer, but apparently it is not so, and I have to leave quite soon. Part of me is glad to go, but another part of me wishes that I did not have to."

"Oh," said Petrova. "Well... where are you going?"

"I did not tell you before," Yuliya said. "But before I came here, I was at Bletchley."

"Bletchley!" Petrova cried. "But that's where... OH."

"You ask me where I am going. I must tell you – I am going home," Yuliya said, and her voice trembled. "From here, to the east, and then, day after tomorrow, in the night, I will... go home."

Petrova put an arm around her friend's waist, felt her trembling, pulled her closer. They held each other tightly, and Petrova tucked her chin over Yuliya's head. At Bletchley Park, they trained the agents of the Special Operations Executive, the ones who posed as natives in occupied territory, who organized resistances, who used radio to transmit information. Yuliya was fluent in French, had grown up in France, and was a skilled radio operator and technician. Day after tomorrow, she would be dropped into France, perhaps to join a French resistance cell, or perhaps to coordinate one. Petrova felt a tear running down her cheek to dampen one of Yuliya's curls. They said that SOE operatives had short lifespans, and if they weren't killed outright, they might be captured, locked up, tortured...

"Oh, Petrova, do not cry, please do not cry, darling." Yuliya raised her head. "I am glad, glad to be going, glad to be doing something to help free the country I call home and to fight against the people who are responsible for the death of my father. Please do not cry for that. I am scared, but... but I know I will be all right." But Yuliya was crying, too.

They held each other and sobbed for reasons inexplicable to themselves, and fell asleep with tear-dampened cheeks pressed tight together.

~*~*~*~*~*~

In the dream, she was not flying the aeroplane; instead, she was in the back of it, in the cargo hold with Yuliya, who was dressed all in black, face smudged with coal, hair bundled tightly under a cap. She looked frail, and her eyes were wide and scared. On her back, the bulky parcel of a parachute.

"Time to go," said the man, wrenching open the door and fastening a hook to Yuliya's belt. Wind blew through the cargo hold, whipping Petrova's hair across her face. She reached for Yuliya, who clung to her. Petrova pressed a kiss on her lips. Yuliya tasted of tears and chocolate.

She slipped from Petrova's arms. "No!" Petrova screamed, trying to catch her hand. Rough hands on her shoulders pulled her back from the hatch, but she could just make out Yuliya, falling away, away, away into the night. "No, no, no, no, no," Petrova said, over and over. Then she was falling too, falling and falling out of the sky.

~*~*~*~*~*~

She woke with a gasp and a start.

Yuliya was gone. On her pillow was folded her mother's beautiful shawl, and pinned to it was a note.

_My dear Petrova,_

_You are so peaceful in sleep that I am happier to leave you this way than to try and say goodbye. You have made these past days of mine so much better than I imagined they would be. Thank you for your thousand kindnesses. Be sure, we will meet again. I know how people can get lost in a war, and I know you may not be long at Luton. So, leave word for me with Marya Ivanova, who runs the Greyston Inn in Kensington. She is my aunt. She will tell me how to find you, when all this war is over, God grant that be soon._

_All my love,_

_Yuliya_

~*~*~*~*~*~

Clara bustled about, putting things in trunks, while between coughing fits, Gum bellowed from the parlor about how to properly pack his few remaining fossil specimens.

"Take him a cup of tea, there's a good girl," Cook said, pressing a mug into Petrova's hands. "It's so good to have you home, deary, even with Mister Matthew ill and having to go to Florida for a cure. We worried about you so, flying those planes about all over the country."

"It's good to be home, Cookie," Petrova said, sadly. She took the mug in to Gum. "Honestly, Gum, you must stop straining your throat," she scolded.

"I can't help it if you lot don't know how to do things properly," Gum grumbled.

"It will all come right in the end, and you know it," Petrova said. "Now, drink up."

"Don't you patronize me."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Gum patted a footstool by his chair. "Come, sit down for half a moment. You look pale and tired. I hope Florida will do you as much good as the doctors think it will do me. Need to get some color in these cheeks," he said, giving Petrova's cheek a fond pinch as she settled herself onto the stool.

"I'm all right, Gum."

"Are you sure? You haven't been yourself since you came back from Luton." He studied Petrova's face intently. "Some fellow make you love him and then leave you in the dust?"

"No, no fellow, no dust," Petrova smiled. Her heart felt like it would squeeze out of her chest, though, because she couldn't press back a thought of Yuliya, of whom she had heard nothing for nearly a year. Not that she would hear anything. Letters would be impossible, of course. Anything Yuliya could send would endanger her and anyone with her. Petrova tried to remind herself that no news was good news. She didn't know if SOE agents lost in the field would have their names published in the lists or not. Probably not. _Don't think about it, Petrova._

"Hmmph," Gum said, still staring at her.

Petrova got up from the stool. "I'm fine, Gum. We'll be leaving soon, so I'd better go help Clara."

Spying a pad of paper on the hall table, she took it up and went in search of a pen.

 _Dear Yuliya,_ she wrote.

_I have left the ATA because my Great Uncle Matthew – remember, I told you about him, I call him Gum – has taken ill, and the doctors have said he'd better go to a warmer climate. My sister Pauline has arranged for a bungalow in Florida, and I must go with Gum to keep him company. I leave you the address in Florida, as well as my sisters' address in New York. I know you may be very busy when you get back to England, or that you might choose to stay in France, but just drop me a line to let me know you're okay._

_I think of you every day, almost every hour. Isn't that strange? But it's true. I hope you are well._

_With love,_

_Petrova_

She wrote the addresses at the bottom, folded the whole thing up and stuck a seal on it. Then she grabbed her coat and hat and slipped out of the house.

At Kensington, she asked a shopkeeper for the Greyston Inn and soon found herself on the steps of a shabby hotel at the very edge of Kensington. She rang the bell, and the door was opened by a maid with a broad, red face. "I'd like to speak with Mrs. Marya Ivanova, if you please."

"S'way, Miss." The maid showed her into a neat parlor room. A moment later a woman in her sixties whose features sharply recalled Yuliya's came into the room.

"Can I help you?"

Petrova swallowed, thinking how strange this might appear to Yuliya's aunt. "If you please, I'd like to leave this note for... for Yuliya, when she... when she comes back."

The woman's eyes filled with tears, and she motioned for Petrova to take a chair. "Have you heard anything of my Yuliya?" she asked.

"No," Petrova said, sadly. "I'm sorry. I haven't. But she asked me to leave word for her here, to let her know where I would be. I hope... I hope she will come soon. Would you tell her just to write me and... and let me know?"

Marya came over and kissed Petrova's forehead. "I will let her know, when she comes," she said, taking the note gently from Petrova's hand.

"Thank you, thank you very much," Petrova said.

"Will you stay to tea?"

"I'm very sorry – I can't. We're leaving tonight, to go on a steamer to Florida."

Marya pressed her hands. "May your journey be swift and safe," she said.

"Thank you."

When she got back, Clara caught her coming in. "Now, where've you been?"

"I had to mail a letter," Petrova said.

"Well, you'd better come have your tea now."

"Yes, Clara."

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Now, isn't this nice," Posy said, sliding the back of her chair flat so she lay all in the sun.

"Rather," Pauline replied. Posy and Pauline were in bathing suits, and Petrova wore shorts and a peasant blouse.

"It's so good to be all together again, isn't it?" Petrova said. She beamed over Pauline and Posy. "I'm so glad you're both here, and Garnie, and Nana, and Gum, and Cook, and Clara... I've missed our little household. So many years, we've been broken up!"

"The bungalow's a bit crowded," Posy remarked.

"Oh, I don't care," Petrova said. She took a deep breath of sea-scented air.

Posy jumped up and did pirouettes in the sand.

"Posy, can't you leave off for a minute?" Pauline complained.

"Manoff only let me come away because I promised to practice every moment I could get," Posy said.

"That's not practicing," Petrova said. Afternoon sun glinted off Posy's red curls. "That's showing off is what it is. People are looking at you from all up and down the beach."

"When have I ever cared for people?" Posy said, haughtily. Then, "Oh, look – there's Garnie coming down from the bungalow. She's got someone with her."

"Nana?" asked Pauline, spreading her golden hair out over the top of her chair.

Petrova put a finger in her book and looked around. "Not Nana," she replied. The figure beside Sylvia was tall and slim, curls flying around her head in the sea breeze. Her heart gave a painful, leaden thud, and she dropped her book.

Posy stopped in mid pirouette. "Why, Petrova Fossil, what is the matter with you?"

Pauline sat up. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

Petrova ignored them and darted across the sand, and the person walking with Sylvia broke into a run. In a moment, Petrova was flying into Yuliya's arms, hugging her tight, and she was oh so thin and shivery, and her eyes were haunted, and the once-shining curls were dull and lank, but her dear face was just the same, the same dear soul behind those haunted eyes.

"You came back!" Petrova cried. "Oh, you came back!"

"I found you," Yuliya said. "I knew I would find you."

They sobbed into each other's shoulders as Garnie and Posy and Pauline drifted up. Petrova sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve. She took Yuliya's hand in hers. "Yuliya, meet my guardian, Garnie, and my sisters, Pauline and Posy," she said. "Everyone, this is Yuliya Ivanova, my... my... my Yuliya."

"Well, come down to the beach," Pauline said, giving Petrova a strange, fond look. "We have a pitcher of lemonade and some cookies."

"I'll leave you girls to it," Sylvia said. "This is far too much sun for me." Petrova gave Sylvia a quick hug, and Sylvia smiled and kissed her on the forehead.

"Does anyone want to see my imitation of Winston Churchill?" Posy asked, and launched into one of her comedic dances without waiting for an answer. They all laughed, and Petrova poured Yuliya a glass of lemonade. She sat down beside her and put an arm around her waist.

"I am so glad," Yuliya whispered. "What a beautiful sunset."

"How about a walk down the beach?" Petrova suggested. Yuliya nodded. "We'll be back," she said to Posy and Pauline, who waved them off.

Along the beach, people were packing up as the sun sank, closing up the umbrellas and taking away the chairs, rounding up sleepy children, and gathering up pails and trowels. A few lovers leaned together, walking down the water line.

Petrova reached over and took Yuliya's hand in hers. Yuliya stopped and pulled Petrova to her, clasping her face gently in her hands. Petrova could feel how thin those hands had grown, how cold the fingertips. But when Yuliya bent down to kiss her, her lips were warm and soft and tender and alive, and Petrova felt as though she were flying, not in an aeroplane but just herself, rising up and up into the stars.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide, Calliette!
> 
> Thanks to my betas! Infinimato, Kaths, and Ms. E. Lephant. :D
> 
> Any historical inaccuracies about World War II, the Air Transport Auxiliary, or anything else, are all my fault. I did as much research as I was able, but undoubtedly I have gotten a few things wrong. However, I hope the story is enjoyable in spite of them.


End file.
